


i know nothing of heaven

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Altar Boy Ciel, Catholicism, Church Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, Jealousy, M/M, Porn With Very Little Plot, Priest Sebastian, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: You are aware of the rumors surrounding Father Michaelis.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	i know nothing of heaven

You are aware of the rumors surrounding Father Michaelis, the whispers on layman's tongues. You’re aware of the way his hands linger on the shoulders of boys, on their waists and arms. You know the sharp glimmer in his eye, the way the sun hits his irises, the way they glint red in the dim evening light of the stained glass windows. You know that everything  _ they _ say about him is untrue. He is not systematically ruining the innocence of devout boys. The only one he's defiling is  _ you _ . He promised as much. 

It was all under the guise of vocational guidance. You were just extremely interested, at your thirteen years of age, in the process of becoming a priest. And, well, Father Michaelis was the head pastor. It was only proper to go through him. 

You two understood each other in seconds. You, like a moth to a flame, were curious how true the tales of burning were, and he was curious in his own way. He was curious about  _ you _ , and how far you would go before you gave up or gave in. That first time he gave you communion wine after Mass was a test, a question all on its own.

_ Hello _ , you could imagine him saying as you took glass after glass from his cold hands,  _ who are you? And what makes you wonder about these things?  _ It made you want to look into his eyes and tell him everything bad that's ever happened to you. Maybe he would understand then. 

And when your cheeks were as red as the wine, his eyes flashed the funniest of colors-- A bright, jeweled pink. A beautiful color, you thought, loosened beyond dignity. The rest of him was just as beautiful. You've noticed his looks the same way concerned parents have. He was  _ dangerously  _ charming, all gentle slopes and easy smiles. He moved with inhuman grace, spoke with a low timbre, and seemed to know everyone's secrets, regardless of anyone confessing them. You always held your breath when you saw him after Mass. He had a way of making you feel something beyond alive. Sublime. Terrified. 

He kissed you at some point (it’s hard to remember when; your memories of those first months being coated in shame and the sting of alcohol) and he reveled in the taste of wine on your tongue, feeling no shame of his own for the clearest sign of his own sin. He opened you easily, had you whispering God's name in absolute vain before his own. You remember clearly the way the cabinet, which held chalices, and boxes of wafers, and those golden Eucharist bowls in neat rows, cut into your thighs when he placed you atop it. You remember the way your altar boy cassock bunched up around your waist (the way he undid the buttons of your ironed dress pants with breathless ease). And maybe because he was a man of the cloth, meant to be your role model, meant to be your guide, or maybe it was the warmth of the wine-- You felt hardly any shame either. The prickling guilt that usually accompanied sin was nowhere to be found, dissipated along with any objections you could’ve possibly had. All you knew, with the Father's mouth on your neck, his hands around your small waist, was how complete you felt. 

And as he wrapped his hand around your cock, fell to his knees and used his teeth to leave marks over your pale skin, the entire world dimmed, hummed with a certain, ineffable bliss. It was nothing you could hope to find outside of him, nothing you could ever hope to find in God. 

Inexplicably, you thought of your father. His certainty in the faith, the sincerity in his prayers. He must've prayed over you thousands of times. What stark proof you were of the weakness of God. What a perfect example of the power lying in temptation. 

At the end of it all, while you used a handkerchief reserved for the edge of a chalice to clean yourself up, Father Michaelis, as simple as exhaling, said he had finally found who he'd been looking for. That under his wing, you would turn out just fine. You would be well taken care of. 

You never needed any convincing. You went home with the taste of wine in the back of your throat. You fell asleep with your thighs prickling.

It became a normal routine very quickly after that. Everyone was convinced you were receiving special instruction, only some adults worrying, none of them being your parents. Father Michaelis would place the Eucharist on your tongue, and after Mass would find some new way of pulling you apart and putting you back together. And you would ask, aching and barely staying in one piece, if there had been any other boys spread out against the sacristy table, and he would assure you, voice low and somehow at ease despite the jerk of his hips being hard enough to make you question the integrity of the wood beneath you, that there was no one else, and never would be, and he  _ could _ never and  _ would _ never lie to you about it. 

And so now, when his eyes scan the crowd during his homily, you can be assured the eye contact is intentional, you can be sure the way he draws out his prayers, lets the edges of his words hiss out of his mouth like smoke, mix with the incense and hang over the room thick and slow, is all meant for you. And when he lays the wafer on your tongue, whispers  _ body of Christ _ , you're compelled to think of the ways your bodies have fit together in this very building. He almost winks at you. It completely destroys you.

You walk back to the pew, sit down awkwardly, face red. Painfully aware of the way he smiles at all the other parishioners, the way he blesses the little ones, too young for their First Communion. It's hard to not feel some irrational pang of jealousy, hard to not think about him looking at some other (probably wide-eyed and innocent) boy, find some joy in corrupting them in the way he has never found in you, already ruined from the inside out (though, he doesn’t ask about that, doesn’t ask about much). 

In the narthex, as families gather around him, make comments about his homily, or force their kids to shake his hand, you watch the way he touches boys' shoulders. Like a little kid, your heart lurches forward, possessed by possessiveness, gripped by a horrible chant of  _ mine, mine, mine _ . Your mom asks if you're going to stay after again, help put everything away. You nod, your eyes fixed on this particular boy, eyes the same shade of blue as yours. He smiles up at Father Michaelis while his parents make the subtlest of expressions behind him. A touch of worry. A touch of reluctance. 

"There's all sorts of gossip about you," you tell him, wiping down a ciborium, "Floating on their tongues whenever I walk through that door. 

He grins, and you wonder how he could possibly trick so many people into thinking he’s holy. "You're concerned with rumors now?"

You sigh. You don't care about your  _ own _ reputation at this point, which is what he’s implying-- It's hard to care when it's only used as a cover for the truth of the matter (you enjoy whatever arrangement this is; you like belonging to this demon-in-human-skin; you like being prey). And you don't care about the people saying it. Really, in your heart of hearts, you care about--

Which, frankly, is the most ridiculous thought you've ever had. Father Michaelis, otherworldly in everything he does, could not, even with the most heinous of rumors, fall victim to anything resembling self-consciousness. He moves through the crowds with an air of complete indifference, almost condescension. He makes it very clear that he will  _ always _ be above you, will  _ always _ be ahead of you. 

His hands are on your hips, his devil of a mouth pressed against your neck. This is a normal feeling. You are forever thirteen and small under his hands-- His touch becomes a promise of its own. 

"You're not jealous, are you? That usually comes later."

And he means when he's settled inside you. And you know he's censoring himself for your sake. "Not jealous," you say, making some feeble attempt to get him off of you. He can smell tempation from a mile away, and there's no way in hell he'll take a step back if he smells it on  _ you _ . You know this. "Concerned for your authority. Makes it easy for people to undermine you."

"You wouldn't undermine me."

You spin around and before you can even raise your voice ( _ never, you would never _ ), his mouth is pressed to yours, his tongue pushing in with a certain entitlement, an expectation that you will open for him, eager and accepting. It makes you want to bite his tongue, just out of spite. But that would ruin the point you're trying to make. 

His hands, bigger than most parts of you, are on either side of your face, his fingertips in your hair; and it feels different. Something about it feels  _ bigger  _ or  _ grander _ . It feels like an admission from him, but you can't grasp the content of it. But it's closer, more intimate than the touches he usually gives you (obviously selfish, obviously perverted), and in your head, made of connections between sly phrases and winks, you take it for more than it probably is. And it makes your heart swell. You can believe it's because you've shown your own sort of vulnerability (which makes you blush, which makes it worse). 

"You wouldn't undermine me," he whispers, and it becomes reality. He knows perfectly where to place you, how to manipulate you, and  _ knowing _ that should make you feel horrified. Instead, it makes you feel cherished. It makes you feel like his favorite toy. 

You hold onto his sleeve, fabric folding in your small fist. His hand is under your chin, and it doesn't have to be. You would be looking into his eyes of your own volition. He kisses you again, slow, and over much too quick. He's smiling, expectant. 

In the quiet sacristy you can hear every small movement, can hear each whisper so clearly-- All it would take is the right word and you'd be completely over the edge, completely under his spell. Not quite orgasmic, but _ euphoric _ . He seems very intent on dancing around that line for as long as possible, not yet wanting you unresponsive, catatonic in his hands. The smell of wine and incense hangs in the air, and you swear something else is mingling with it. The sticky smell of blood on his collar, on his fingertips as they wrap around your throat, right under your chin.

He's terribly beautiful. You almost can't look directly at him, and this position, stuck between his hands and the old wood cutting into the small of your back, is almost enough to burn you from the inside out.

"Tell me what comes next."

You forget how to speak. All that comes out of you is a soft hum, a closing of your eyes. His hand moves lower, around your windpipe. He could kill you very easily, could probably get away with it too. 

Never have you been so close to that line, that edge, without crossing over it. Never before have you felt so close to floating while still feeling so grounded in the space around you. And this is how it always starts. He's always so gentle when you have your eyes on him. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t his natural state. This is his kindness. This is his persuasion. 

You breathe in, and it's a miracle that air reaches your lungs. Really, if he wanted to know, what comes next is a tide of fear, a horrible panic. But after that fades (which it never fully does)-- "Sebasti--"

"Please, Ciel, now isn't the time for informality. It’s Father, yes?” And you nod, eyes closed tight, “What comes next?"

You bite your bottom lip, and you taste blood, but it doesn't have to be yours. You push forward, feeling his hand squeeze around your neck, and you kiss him of your own accord. His eyes open wide. These little moments of surprise, where it's clear he doesn't have all of the control, isn’t always a step ahead of you, are what you live for. It makes you feel accomplished more than anything else ever could. 

You smile against his lips and turn around, palms flat on the dark wood. Father Michaelis, in his infinite wisdom, slips his arm around your waist and pulls you flush against his hips. It's awkward, the position you're standing in, but he's holding you up, a hand on your stomach, another around your throat. And he's slipping under your dress pants (ironed that morning), and he unbuttons them so easily you're worried they were undone all through Mass. And he kisses the back of your neck-- and  _ this _ is what you were waiting for. The smallest push. 

You're floating. You can feel his hands on you but not much else. The floor isn't holding you up, neither is the cabinet. Sebastian, hands far-reaching, is the only support you have. Pleasure the only feeling you know.

In most spaces you feel far too large, hold far too much space for such a young boy, but in Sebastian's hands, you feel like the smallest, most treasured possession. Your back fits perfectly against his chest, his hips against yours. Your hand is over his, but you can't remember putting it there. You can feel the rhythm he's taking, sadistic in its pace. Numbingly slow. He whispers, "What next? Go ahead."

You reach behind your back, your small palm pressing against the fabric of his pants, a fine wool now that it was winter, warm against your hand. He wears a belt, and a couple years ago that would've been a problem from this angle, but you don't bat an eye taking it off. A quick lift of your finger, a small tug, a long pull, and it's on the floor. 

He sighs in your ear, mumbles something you don't hear. You're impossibly far away-- a feeling that used to scare you, used to make you feel broken in some horrifying way. You don't feel any less broken now, but the cracks running across your surface feel golden, shining where Sebastian runs his fingers (having been the one to place a good amount of them). And by extension,  _ you _ feel golden. You feel like Icarus, with steel wings instead of wax. He must be the sun. 

His hand is still around your throat when you manage to wrap yours around his cock. For a split second, you wonder how you could ever be jealous. It was so clear in that moment that he belongs completely to you-- you hold all of his lust, you have to. He wouldn't be this eager if he let himself have anyone. There's something special about you, he can see it. 

"Go on, Ciel. Show me what you've learned, mm?"

You pull open a drawer with one hand, your head swimming, the backs of your legs aching. You have to trust in his hold on you. Holy oil-- the bottle nearly slips through your fingers. You flip it open. Sebastian's hand is already there, waiting. Once his fingers are covered, he doesn't wait for your permission, your readying. He pushes inside you with that same entitlement. Expecting you to accommodate him in all his forms. You're close to trying to push him off you, curl in on yourself, and refuse-- refuse to let him have you, make him pry you open instead. He slips his fingers, belonging to his other hand, into your mouth, forces your head back. The gag that follows, almost enough to make you spew up Jesus Christ himself, violent and unyielding, is enough to make you mallable again. Sebastian must know that. Enough force and you'll break. He knows all the ways to make you break.

Sebastian is not concerned with your breaking. He moves into you, settles inside you like he doesn't care about hurting you further. Like you could crumble into dust and he would hardly shed a tear. With anyone else, in any other situation, it would make you feel pathetic beyond words. Right now, it seems to prime you perfectly for the way he crashes into you. Sugar and cyanide, you're sure. Blood and fire. 

Oh well. God couldn't blame you for being exactly who He made you to be. Someone to be used, to be attached to whoever inflicts the most pain.

The gold rattles on their shelves, held in place by the fragile glass doors, and your heart rattles inside your chest, beating fervently, pushing blood into your veins, into your face. You know you're being loud, you can almost hear yourself, but Sebastian makes no motion to silence you-- laughs when you try to cover your own mouth. 

"I would know if someone was about to catch us. You trust me, don't you?"

You nod before you can think twice.  _ I do, I do.  _ You nod so quickly you nearly give yourself a concussion. He pulls your hand away from your mouth, presses it against your dress shirt, right against your heart. Shameful, pittering heart. Betraying you so completely. 

One of the glass doors cracks right down the middle, and you can no longer contain yourself. You cry out, feeling heat running down your face. You’re crying.

Sebastian's hand is large enough to keep you from making a mess, and you're hardly coming down, hardly finding your breath again, when you feel his hand go under your shirt, smearing your come across your small belly. 

Sebastian himself takes a bit longer, always seems to last right up until you're sure you'll break apart completely. A dislocated hip, a shattered spine barely avoided. Just in the nick of time.

You can feel his come inside you, thicker than yours, more than yours. The feeling itself, of being filled, of being used until you can hardly move, makes a second wave leap forward, something strangled and awful force its way past your lips. 

Your vision fades, then pops back in full color. And Sebastian, Sebastian is holding you. And you think, with calm lucidity, that you will never let anyone else have him. Even if it means staying this small forever. Even if it means throwing your life away. He has placed his mark on your soul, on your very complexion, and there is no way to wash it clean. 

You walk home and throw all of your clothes into the hamper. You take a very long shower only to discover that your fingers cannot come close to Father Michaelis'. You fall asleep praying:  _ holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. _

**Author's Note:**

> so. school's starting, right. which means poor me doesn't have as much time or energy to write, so all the stuff I write from now until summer's back is gonna be . super indulgent. and is probably gonna take me forever . i hope y'all enjoy it still tho . and I hope the ppl who subscribed for wincest fic aren't terribly disappointed lol . 
> 
> anyway. am currently rewatching black butler and also thinking a lot about catholicism (as i usually do). this was the product. hope your enjoyed! can't make any promises about when I'll be back with something new! <3


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